


Tin Man

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Character Study, Community: holmestice, Drug Use, Gen, Light Angst, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: Four Times Mycroft Holmes Tried to Look After His Brother, and One Time Sherlock Returned the Favour
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 8
Kudos: 121
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2018





	Tin Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dogandmonkeyshow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogandmonkeyshow/gifts).



> So this is another older story, written for Holmestice Winter of 2018, and finally posted here. I have given it a brand new title. Unlike most of my stories, its focus is on the Holmes Brothers. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to my beta iwantthatcoat, who helped tremendously with tightening things up and was stupendously helpful with the Mycroft voice.
> 
> TW: mention of drug use
> 
> A minor warning: This fic has a decidedly ‘unreliable narrator’ quality to it; as such, their opinions and thoughts about certain other characters are not necessarily the author’s own. Although they could be ;)

**Four Times Mycroft Holmes Tried to Look After His Brother, and One Time Sherlock Returned the Favour**

1.

After the harrowing events involving the disappearance of Victor and the burning of Musgrave Hall, few expected Sherlock to ever be threatened to that extent again. He had even conveniently forgotten the whole thing, so no ghosts lingered to haunt him. This made everything easier for the rest of his family, making their assistance in his recovery a moot point. Sherlock had always been like that, though: precocious, forward-thinking, basically able to look after himself from a very young age. His ability to bounce back from any mishap or unfortunate event, seemingly for the better, was frankly uncanny. Mummy and Daddy took it as an indication that they could relax their vigilance as pertaining to their youngest son’s well-being.

Their parents’ attitude irritated Mycroft to no end, especially the way they kept referring to Sherlock as ‘our little grown-up’. Fools, the both of them. Sherlock was a child, and therefore needed the guidance of those older and wiser than him. It was folly to believe otherwise.

So despite the inconvenience, he took it upon himself to maintain a weather eye on his brother whenever possible. It was one of the reasons he always came home for the holidays from where ever he happened to be, first Eton and then Oxford. If it meant sacrificing some academic and professional opportunities that had been offered - well, it was the least he could do. Wasn’t that what older brothers were supposed to do, after all? Family was all anybody had in the end. His parents may have earned his utter disdain, but Sherlock was a different story. Mycroft had already lost one sibling. He couldn’t bear to lose another.

And so it transpired, during the Christmas just before Sherlock turned 10, that Mycroft was there to save the day. In his own mind, at least.

+++

“Has anyone seen Sherlock?”

Mummy poked her head out from the kitchen. “He went out with his new sled an hour ago. He knows to be back by lunchtime, that boy has a scarily accurate internal clock. It’s fine.”

Mycroft scowled. He stood looking out into the garden, hands fisted in his trouser pockets. The book he was reading lay discarded on his chair, uncharacteristically open where he had left off, cover up. That in itself reflected Mycroft’s state of mind. He rarely treated his books so casually.

The snow had been steadily falling for the past fifteen minutes, and the wind had picked up as well. Mycroft was… concerned.

Abruptly he turned away from the window and strode towards the porch. “I’m going to look for him,” he announced tersely. He whipped open the door and grabbed his coat off its peg, thrusting his arms into it with jerky movements. He shoved his feet into his wellies and tugged on his gloves, forgoing a hat in his haste.

His mother yelled something at his retreating back, but Mycroft ignored her and continued on outside.

“Stupid child,” Mycroft muttered to himself as he stomped out into the cold. “Interrupting the first morning I’ve had in ages to relax with no pressing items on my agenda… _Sherlock!_ Where are you, fool boy?”

It was a testament to his ire that at first he missed the small footprints that as yet had not been filled in. When his eyes finally swept across them, he cursed himself for his distraction.

_Caring is not an advantage._

Uncle Rudy would be appalled.

After ten minutes, the tracks led to the crest of the large hill that marked the end of the Holmes property. Anxiety twisted in Mycroft’s gut. He knew what lay on the other side, at the bottom: a pond that was surely frozen over but razor thin in spots, unlikely to hold the weight of a nine-year old boy and his sled. On the way down stood a large, ancient pine tree that could easily serve as the end point for a sled whose rider ran into… navigation issues.

With unusual hesitance, Mycroft forced himself to the summit. He looked down on the scene before him -- and was assaulted simultaneously by relief and irritation. The boy would be the death of him someday.

The frozen pond was blessedly devoid of any tragic scene. Halfway to the bottom stood the pine tree, sled abandoned right side up about ten feet away, and two small legs dangling from the second-lowest branch. Sherlock’s upper body was obscured by the snow-laden evergreen foliage.

Mycroft crossed his arms. “Are you stuck?” he shouted.

The little legs twitched. “Mycroft! What _took_ you so long? I’m bloody freezing up here.”

“Sherlock! Language.” Mycroft chuckled in spite of himself, and walked towards the tree with sedate, unhurried steps. His eyes swept over the sled and noticed a brown lump resting on top of it. “And why did you discard your mittens?”

“Couldn’t get a good grip with them on,” Sherlock complained.

“Hmm. Poor planning on your part, I would say. Perhaps I’ll get you a set of proper gloves for your birthday.” Mycroft stopped immediately below Sherlock and tipped his head upward. “Are you stuck, Little Brother?”

“Yes,” Sherlock pouted. “This never would have happened if you had come out to play with me like I asked! You never play with me anymore.” Sherlock’s eyes shone and his lips trembled. “Don’t you like me anymore?”

Mycroft ignored the sentimental tuggings on his heart. He shrugged. “What’s not to like? You’re reasonably intelligent, clever enough most of the time, and not completely boring. Would you like help getting down?”

+++

Despite the snow and the wind, Mycroft couldn’t help the warm feeling in his chest from spreading outward. Sherlock, once again mitten-clad, clung to his neck as Mycroft held him against his chest while he dragged the sled behind him. Sherlock was small for his age, so carrying him wasn’t a burden, although soon he would be too old for such a thing. Right now, Mycroft was his hero, and Mycroft, despite his natural disinclination towards such things, meant to bask in that feeling for as long as he could.

Mycroft felt a spark of contentment as he trudged the short way back to the house and its waiting comforts. Maybe -- just maybe -- things were finally getting back to normal. Maybe, against all odds, Sherlock was going to be just fine. Which meant the rest of them would be, too.

2.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

In an out-of-the way warehouse, the man stood in front of Mycroft, tugging on his shirt collar and sweating profusely. Mycroft took a suitably threatening stance, leaning on his umbrella as he periodically checked his phone.

“I, I barely know him.”

“Oh come now, Mr Wilkes. You can do better than that.”

“He’s my roommate at Cambridge. But it’s true that I barely know him.”

“Isn’t it true that you’ve introduced him to the dubious pleasures of cocaine?”

“What? No, no, I swear to you…”

“Don’t even bother. I have eyes everywhere, Mr Wilkes.” Mycroft was enjoying this. He had a real flair for intimidation. Perhaps he should look into Military Intelligence as a future career path after all.

“Who _are_ you?” Wilkes spluttered, wringing his hands and shifting from foot to foot.

Mycroft studied his fingernails. “No one of consequence. At least not yet. I do have a proposition for you, though.”

“Name it.”

This was too easy.

“In exchange for not turning you in for possession, I require two things. One: you cease providing Sherlock with drugs. Two: you will report to me on a regular basis in regards to what he’s up to. I’m willing to pay for the information, of course.”

“How much?”

“Enough to keep you out of jail. How’s that?”

Wilkes swallowed. “All right. I accept.”

As if he had any real choice in the matter. Mycroft gave him a fake smile. “Good. That’s very good. I’ll text you the details. My car will take you back home.” He turned to go.

“Wait! You don’t have my number.”

Without turning around, Mycroft said, “Yes, I do.” And continued walking.

++++++

_One week earlier_

Mycroft had taken advantage of his new position of power to pull out all the stops in the surveillance of his brother. Sherlock had just started his first year at Cambridge, and his roommate was one Sebastian Wilkes. Mycroft knew Seb’s older brother and father, and the knowledge was not comforting. The family was old money, the boys being trust fund babies who had basically legacied their way into university. Old man Wilkes was a dean there, and Junior was a professor in the Economics Department. Mycroft didn’t trust Seb’s influence on a vulnerable Sherlock, and he meant to keep more than a weather eye on their interactions.

It probably verged on illegal, if not outright so, but Mycroft was careful when he had the cameras installed in their rooms at their halls of residence. Mycroft stood behind the desk of his new private office, a corner one with a view of the Thames. Instead of basking in his success and enjoying his surroundings for the privilege that it was, his eyes were fixed upon his computer where a view of Sherlock’s room was on display. Sherlock and Seb sat on the floor on either side of the coffee table, cross-legged and relaxed. Their movements were languid as they puffed on joints while gesticulating in the air, discussing whatever tedious topic was the order of the day. So far their behaviour had been fairly innocuous, but Mycroft was far from relaxing his vigilance. He had a suspicion…

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Ah, there it was. Seb flourished a packet that he opened and created a line of powder in front of them. He wasted no time in snorting some up, and Sherlock followed suit, as if he had done it before several times. Mycroft frowned. This would not do at all. Further action was required. He had a car, a driver and an assistant. A plan began to form in his mind.

+++

Seb did keep up one end of the bargain; he fed Mycroft information on a weekly basis. But he used the money received to purchase a better grade of cocaine, and did not stop snorting up with Sherlock, although they did so in boltholes rather than in their rooms (Seb was intelligent enough to figure out they were probably being watched there).

Within two months of this arrangement, Sherlock overdosed for the first time. To Mycroft’s chagrin, it wouldn’t be the last.

After that, Mycroft wasn’t quite so smug about his ability to read a situation and act accordingly.

3.

“Sir?”

Mycroft looked up from his paperwork to see Anthea standing in his doorway. Her eyes never left the screen of her phone as she spoke.

“Yes, my dear? What do you have for me?”

“Your brother has been seen in the company of one Billy ‘the Wig’ Wiggins.”

“The same Wiggins that just served two years for drug manufacturing?”

“The same. Sir.”

Mycroft frowned. “I warned him to stay away from Sherlock. I may have threatened him.”

“He has, sir. Sherlock approached _him._ ”

Oh, no he did _not._ Not after all Mycroft had done to ensure that Sherlock’s rehabilitation took last time, to ensure that Sherlock kept his promise to remain clean. A promise that he had kept dutifully for the past six months. What the hell was he playing at?

“Send a car to pick Sherlock up, _now._ Tell the lads to remind him of his promise, and the consequences of breaking it.”

“Very good, sir.” Anthea turned in her five-inch stilettos and gracefully walked away, both heels and fingers tapping out a rapid rhythm that set Mycroft’s teeth on edge. As soon as she was out of earshot, Mycroft put all of his attention back on his work. He could trust his detail -- and Anthea -- to know what to do to get the job done.

Five hours later, an enraged and filthy Sherlock stood in Mycroft’s office, one eye blackened and a nasty scrape on his forehead. Mycroft stared at him, aghast.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“As if you don’t know. Before you set your minions on me next time, it might behoove you to remember that I now work with the police force, and they don’t take kindly to assault and battery. You can’t just rough me up when I fail to heel like a dog.”

“Since when do you work with the police? And my men wouldn’t do _that_ to you, they were given strict orders - “

“Well then, you’d better get control of your own employees, don’t you think? This isn’t the first time they’ve taken liberties and decided to have a bit of fun with the boss’s kid brother. And for your information, I’ve been working with DI Lestrade to help bring down one of the biggest drug rings in the city. You almost blew my cover!”

“Blew your - blast it, Sherlock! You’re in no way qualified to be working _undercover_ to bring down a drug ring! Who authorized this?”

“New Scotland Yard. I consult with them on cases when they’re out of their depth, which is _always._ ”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes, and I’m the Queen of England. Pull the other one, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirked. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you were, Brother Dear. Now stop sticking your fat nose in my business! I’ve finally found something that doesn’t bore me to tears within a day, so kindly stop interfering with my work.”

“Your work.” The words dripped with condescension.

Sherlock sniffed. “Yes.”

Mycroft crossed his arms and stared at his little brother. The cheeky bastard just stared right back, no flinching or averting of eyes. Sherlock’s eyes were clear, lacking the dull lustre so common when he was under the influence of either drugs or ennui. There was a sparkle to them that Mycroft hadn’t seen in years. No, he definitely hadn’t been using, despite the appearance of his filthy clothes and greasy, matted hair. He certainly wasn’t making the best use of his talents, but at least he wasn’t squandering them either.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said cautiously. “Are you sure…”

“Yes, yes, do stop being so tedious, Mycroft. I did promise, didn’t I? I am clean. I don’t even smoke. Now if you don’t mind, do call off your muscle, yes? I need to get back to work and I’d prefer to do so unhindered by watching eyes, if you get my drift.” Without waiting for a response, Sherlock spun on his filthy trainers and swept out, slamming the door behind him.

Mycroft let out a breath. He closed his eyes and felt a twinge of something in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He could still see the black and purple blossoming around Sherlock’s right eye. He’d never intended for his team to get physical, beyond what they needed to do in order to restrain or relocate. Using his brother as a punching bag was not on the list of acceptable methods. Had he inadvertently hired the same sort of bullies that had given Sherlock so much grief during his younger years?

Mycroft opened his eyes. He suddenly felt exhausted. He scrubbed a hand over his face. It looked like a change in personnel was called for.

Also, a background check into this Lestrade person seemed to be in order. Couldn’t hurt to make sure that everything was on the up and up from that corner as well. A bribe or two probably wouldn’t go amiss either.

4.

He stared at the man standing in front of his desk. Mycroft barely recognized him as the one he once thought could be the making of his brother. Broken, bitter, and a shadow of what he once was, John Watson still made a show of defiance. Chin up, fists clenched, he would have fooled any other person. But then again, Mycroft wasn’t just any other person.

“Sit down, John.”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

Mycroft stood, placed his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “I said, _sit down._ ”

There had been a day when John Watson wouldn’t have been intimidated by a harsh tone or a raised voice. Things had apparently changed since then. John swallowed, took a step back and sat in the chair provided.

“That’s better.” Mycroft straightened up, and made a show of rearranging the items on his desk. “It has come to my attention that Sherlock is to be released later this week, barring any further complications.” He lifted his eyes and locked them with John’s, raising an eyebrow as he waited.

John shifted in his seat. “Er… yes. That’s the plan. Back to Baker Street.”

“I see. And into whose care has he been released?”

“Mine.”

Mycroft stiffened. “Indeed.”

John leaned forward, clearing his throat. “Look, Mycroft, I know that - “

“No. You will listen to me, and you will keep your mouth shut until I’m finished.”

John’s eyes widened. He leaned back in his chair, both hands gripping the armrests.

Mycroft walked to the front of his desk, where he leaned against it with his arms crossed. “Now, listen very carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. I will allow Sherlock to be released into your care.”

John sputtered. _“Allow - “_

“Yes,” Mycroft snapped. “I will allow this to happen with this understanding. If, at any time in the future, you _dare_ to lay one finger on my brother in anger, then believe me it will be the last time you ever draw breath as a free man. I don’t think I need to make any other threats, since your situation should be quite clear to you. Is it, _Doctor_ Watson?”

Mycroft could feel the rage starting to ripple through his body, causing his skin to heat and his blood to boil. It took all of his will to suppress it, to condense it into a solid ball of ice and lock it in the pit of of his stomach, where it could lie dormant without harming everyone in its path. This _man,_ who dared to call himself a _doctor,_ had beaten his brother to a bloody pulp, breaking two ribs in the process and further compromising the body that Sherlock had already abused with drug use, dehydration, and extreme neglect. The same man who Sherlock claimed as best friend, worthy of two years on the run far from hearth and home.

Mycroft couldn’t credit it. But if Sherlock insisted on keeping this… soldier… in his life, then Mycroft would do what he could to make sure it wouldn’t be the death of him.

Doctor Watson slumped in his seat, all resistance drained away. Guilt and sorrow were writ large across his face. “I understand. Agreed.”

 _Good,_ Mycroft thought. At least the man still had a conscience. Maybe the situation could still be salvaged.

“Now, I appreciate your assistance with the Culverton matter. Sherlock could never have brought down that scourge without your help. That is the only reason why I didn’t immediately have you clapped in irons after his arrest. You’re a free man only because of Sherlock’s appeal on your behalf. You are in his debt -- not the other way around. Have I made myself clear?”

To Mycroft’s surprise, John rallied his flagging self-respect. He raised his head and made eye contact with Mycroft. His eyes shone with genuine contrition, but also with something else.

“Crystal. In fact, with the help of the rest of Sherlock’s friends, I’ve already drawn up a schedule.”

“A schedule? For what?”

“For Sherlock-duty, of course. You don’t expect that he should be left alone for any length of time for the next month or so, do you? I can’t be there 24/7. I have a job. And a child.”

To his utter annoyance, Mycroft felt wrong-footed. “I assumed since Mrs Hudson lives right there -- “

John laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “You think a 75-year old woman with a bad hip and no medical training should be at Sherlock’s beck and call? No. A group of us are on a rotating schedule. Care to be included? Being his brother and all, I would guess that you’re listed as next of kin, yes? Here’s your chance to be involved.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t understand. Surely Sherlock would find my presence to be irritating at best -- “

“Yeah? And whose fault is that? I know that you care about him, Mycroft, but always from a safe distance. You direct the rest of us to go into the trenches and do the work that actually matters. Pulling the strings from afar won’t cut it anymore. He needs you to be involved. _Directly_ involved.”

Mycroft was rapidly losing control of the conversation. “I didn’t bring you here to be _lectured --_ “

“No, I know. You’re always the one doing the lecturing.” John held up a conciliatory hand. “I’m well aware of my failings, Mycroft. Believe me, I don’t need you pointing them out to me. I’m going to do everything in my power to deserve Sherlock’s regard, I promise you. And in the meantime… maybe the two of you could have a real conversation sometime. In person, even. Could do your relationship a world of good. From one sibling of an addict to another.”

Mycroft bristled, but he had no energy left to continue his castigation of John’s character, or to defend himself against accusations that hit too close to home. His nights had been virtually sleepless lately, for various reasons, all having to do with Sherlock. He needed at least a weekend locked away from the outside world, preferably in his film room, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

Wearily, he waved a hand in the air. “Keep me informed, John. I trust you’ll know if there’s something I need to be made aware of. Hopefully before the point-of-no-return.”

Mycroft didn’t miss the twin expressions of disappointment and resignation that John shot his way as he was leaving. He didn’t have time to let it affect him personally, not when he had to make sure that ghosts from the past that were somehow raising their ugly heads were successfully kept at bay, preferably in a permanent fashion. Constant vigilance was exhausting, but absolutely necessary. Something was coming, and Mycroft needed to be prepared.

Even if it meant temporarily relinquishing responsibility to a man with anger issues.

+1

Mycroft wasn’t expecting any visitors or assistance beyond the sort that he regularly paid for. Being stuck at home wasn’t the most convenient of situations, but at least he could get *some* work done whilst stuck in bed, his broken leg elevated with pillows. He could get around just fine with crutches for the few things he needed mobility for, and his live-in cook/housekeeper was sufficient for checking on him every two hours until his concussion cleared. Which should only be for the next forty-eight hours, hopefully.

This isolation was the price he paid for lying to everyone he had ever cared about for his entire adult life. He refused to wallow in bitterness, paralytic that it was, so he turned his attention to what he always did when some emotion threatened to swallow him whole: he buried himself in work. The best antidote to sorrow, not that he was very familiar with that particular emotion either.

And there was no way he was _lonely._ He didn’t have time to be, not while bogged down in all of the bureaucracy and red tape that had resulted from events at Sherrinford. It was going to take an ungodly amount of time to untangle all of that mess, and present it in such a fashion that the truth would be buried as it always was -- at least for the general public.

His parents hadn’t even been told Eurus was still alive. They would have to be, though. Mycroft didn’t look forward to that chore one bit. And of course, he expected to do it alone. Sherlock shouldn’t be involved, not when he had been the primary victim (target) in all of this. He wasn’t responsible for Mycroft’s failings. Mycroft, and Mycroft alone, needed to face the music.

A knock on the doorframe startled him out of his reverie. He jerked his head up, only to meet the piercing eyes of the person he least expected.

“Sherlock! What are you doing here? It’s past eleven.”

“Still concussed, brother mine? It’s not like you to state the obvious.” Sherlock stood in the doorway, balancing a six-pack of beer on top of a box of pizza. “Also, your security system is still remarkably lax.”

Mycroft fought the urge to cover up his pyjama-clad body with his duvet. He’d seen Sherlock in nothing but a sheet, and less, in Buckingham Palace; there was no need for modesty in his own home, especially not in front of his brother. He eyed Sherlock’s offering dubiously.

“I can’t imagine you brought that for _me;_ since when do I eat pizza or drink beer?”

“I didn’t, I brought it for _us._ Well, the pizza. I remember it being your favourite whenever you came home from Eton. It’s my understanding you won’t be drinking any alcohol for awhile. The beer is for me.”

“Since when do you drink beer? Ah. John and Lestrade’s influence, I’m sure.”

“Speaking of Greg, has he stopped by to check in with you at all?”

“Why would he? Oh. I vaguely remember getting a text from him asking if he could drop in. I declined the offer. I thought it was rather rude of him, actually, taking advantage of my convalescence to wring a statement or wrangle a favour out of me, I’m not sure which he was after...”

“How about neither?” Sherlock snapped. Mycroft jerked in surprise. “ _I_ asked him to look after you. Is it so hard to believe that anybody would actually be concerned about your wellbeing, without an ulterior motive?”

Mycroft swallowed. “Frankly, yes,” he confessed.

Sherlock frowned. “Put your laptop away and grab your crutches, Mycroft. A dressing gown too, if you must. Then follow me.”

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, I’d rather not navigate any stairs, if at all possible - “

“Not necessary. Come along, it’s not like you’re an invalid.”

++++++

After the end credits of _Doctor Zhivago_ had finished scrolling and the projector had been turned off, the two of them sat in silence, surrounded by darkness. The empty pizza box lay discarded at their feet.

“Well. _That_ was depressing.”

Mycroft huffed out a soft laugh. “Yes, not the most uplifting of stories, I have to admit.”

“Why do you own it, then?”

“Because it has a sort of -- romantic flair, I suppose, combined with realism. It shows that life isn’t about the final destination. It’s about the journey and the people that you meet along the way.”

Silence reigned between them for several minutes before it was broken.

“You did the best you could, Mycroft,” Sherlock said softly. “You were just a child yourself. Mummy and Dad will understand.”

“I was a child when it all began. But then I became an adult and I continued to fail. And no. They won’t.”

“Well, I’ll make sure that they do.”

“You won’t be there, Sherlock.”

“Yes, I will! You don’t have to face them alone. I’ll make them see -- “

“Will you?” Mycroft asked wearily. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this particular journey, Sherlock, is that you can’t always control the outcome. You can do your best, of course. But people are notoriously unpredictable.” Mycroft smiled. “It’s why I tend to avoid them at all cost.”

Sherlock laughed. “Me too.” His voice took on a more somber quality. “But we can’t this time. And I’ll tell you the same thing that I told John not too long ago. It’s not a pleasant thought, but I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might just all be human. Even you. So give yourself a break -- even if nobody else does. For myself, I have no complaints about the way my life turned out.”

Mycroft didn’t know how to respond to any of that. Maybe an effect of the painkillers was to slow his mind and make him tongue-tied. So he did what he always did in that situation.

“Well. That’s enough of _that,_ I think. Thank you for the company, Sherlock, and for the pizza. I haven’t had that in years.”

“Yes, I know. I already dropped off my bag in the guest room next to yours. What’s the schedule, every two hours?”

Again Mycroft found himself wrong-footed. It seemed to be happening a lot these days. Maybe age factored into it.

“Schedule for what?”

“For waking you at regular intervals. I gave your housekeeper/whatever her job title is the night off. I’m looking after you for the next few days. Except for the cooking, that’s why I didn’t dismiss her entirely. I can make tea, though. Just ask Moriarty.”

It was so unexpected and absurd that Mycroft couldn’t hold it in. A sound travelled up from the depths of his belly, as if it had been waiting for years for such an occasion to escape. Mycroft laughed and laughed, head thrown back and hand on his stomach as tears streamed down his cheeks. At some point, Sherlock joined in with his distinctive deep rumble, more vibration than actual sound.

After an unspecified amount of time, the laughter died down. Mycroft felt lighter than he had since his carefree primary school days. Had there ever been such a time? He wasn’t entirely sure.

Mycroft threw a grateful look Sherlock’s way as his brother pledged to put away the film and tidy up the detritus of their evening. He was exhausted, and needed to rest. Much too soon, their parents would have to be confronted with the truth. Eurus still existed, and would remain a concern for as long as she lived. Life would go on, with all of the mundane tasks and duties that had always filled his days. But this time, with the realisation that the burden didn’t need to rest solely on his own shoulders.

Maybe, against all odds, Sherlock was going to be just fine. Which meant the rest of them would be, too.


End file.
